


the days when it shines

by inamorromani



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, happy birfday steph, hashirama is a forest spirit, hashirama is also an airhead, madara is an airhead, this dont make no cents luhv, yes. an airhead. i said what i said
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 09:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamorromani/pseuds/inamorromani
Summary: “I always forget how kind you are,” Hashirama says quietly, “When you’re gone. You always amaze me when I see you again.”
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 7
Kudos: 164





	the days when it shines

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEPH i wrote this in 40 minutes in the library while i was supposed to be doing internship applications

Madara rolls his foot experimentally, and grimaces. His ankle is broken- he feels certain of it. Maybe not  _ certain _ , but there’s already a hot, pinkish phantom along the outside of his heel where a dark bruise will no doubt blossom within a day or two. 

It’s his own fault, he supposes, for wearing sandals with such high, unsteady platforms- his “flashy” sandals, Izuna liked to call them- for no greater occasion than walking his evening laps about the woods. Sometimes, he reasoned with himself, he just liked to look nice for himself. It was certainly nothing to do with the off chance that he run into Hashirama near the riverbanks as he sometimes did. 

It had been a while, admittedly; since Butsuma had died, he’d progressively seen less and less of his old friend, less and less of his bright smiles and his big brown eyes. They had seen each other maybe two, three months before, in the second month of the winter, and Hashirama had looked nothing short of miserable. He tended to look miserable in the winters, though, Madara had come to learn. He’d become quiet, withdrawn, and inconsolably distant. Madara was never sure what to make of it- he made it a point to keep a thermos of tea and an extra fur on him during the winters, just in case. Hashirama was always so gracious towards him. 

But it’s spring now, and sometimes Madara gets too comfortable. 

He’s sitting with his back against the broad, winding roots of a camphor tree, rolling his ankle between his thumbs. He winces. 

It’s starting to get dark. That’s probably a good sign, all things considered, as Izuna will no doubt start looking for him soon- but in the meantime, he has nothing better to do with himself than count the stars as they appear. 

He folds his arms over his chest, bending his uninjured leg in a hurdler’s stretch behind his hips. Through the relatively sparse canopy of the forest, Madara can count the jagged lines between one constellation, three corners of another beside it. The sky is light, orange and blue and navy in a way that’s nothing short than picturesque. 

That must be part of what Hashirama had always loved about the springtime, Madara thinks- the way the world came back to life in tiny, measurable little increments. He always had a knack for the little things, declaratory and dramatic as he could be. Once, he’d come to the riverbank with a tiny square notebook full of spore prints from mushrooms that were almost undoubtedly toxic, wearing a beautiful, broad smile and his hair tied back with a length of cotton cord he’d spun himself. Madara had placed his hands gently over Hashirama’s in a gesture of appreciation- he hadn’t known what else to do. 

Wherever Hashirama went, wildflowers followed in unneat lines of white, lavender, and wheatgrass green. He had that otherworldly presence about him, same as the stars.

Madara closes his eyes, slowly, and then opens them again.

There’s a soft, rustling sound somewhere behind him- a deer, he reasons, but goes for a kunai anyways. Izuna would make more noise than that. He can practically hear him now, frantic and terrified and almost girlishly high pitched- “ _ aniki, aniki, aniki _ ”. Madara smiles fondly. 

The rusting pauses, and then starts again slowly, circling around a spattering of camphor trees behind him, inching closer, closer, curious and uncertain. Madara touches the side of his neck- it feels uncomfortably warm. 

“Madara?” 

He jumps, twisting his injured ankle under his hips as he scrambles to steady himself against the camphor tree’s roots again. 

Hashirama is staring at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving, his pretty hair held back from his face on either side with intricately carved wooden clips. Even just standing there, tiny ferns sprout up from the ground, moss climbing down the trunk of the tree towards Madara. Hashirama looks almost otherworldly- there’s a subtle, golden glow framing his face and his shoulders, his simple robe folded across his chest in an almost uncharacteristically modest fashion. He’s balancing a tiny wicker basket on his forearm, already overflowing with herbs and wildflowers. There’s a white rabbit sitting at his feet, its head cocked curiously to the side. Unthinkingly, Madara offers it his first finger. 

“Er-”

“Oh,” Hashirama gasps, dropping to his knees beside him, “You’re hurt.” 

Before Madara can say anything, Hashirama has abandoned his basket of herbs on the ground and folded his hands around Madara’s injured ankle, his hands warm and glowing and green against his exposed skin. Madara hisses. 

Hashirama reaches up and tucks his hair behind his ear, his focus still singularly on healing Madara’s injury. 

“I twisted my ankle,” Madara says plainly. Hashirama laughs- it’s a bright, beautiful sound. 

“You did.”

“Izuna’s probably out looking for me.” 

“He is,” Hashirama says, experimentally rolling Madara’s ankle to the side. Madara hisses again. He tries not to think too hard about what Hashirama is saying- sometimes, Hashirama likes to talk out of his ass.

“He probably shouldn’t see us together,” he says urgently, “I’m okay. I don’t want to risk it.” 

“You’re so hasty!” Hashirama chastises, “I’m almost done, anyways.” 

“That was fast,” Madara says, a little bewildered. He turns his foot from side to side in Hashirama’s hand, his eyes fluttering shut. Hashirama places his foot gently on the ground again, and Madara concentrates on the feeling of his hands travelling up and down his leg, from his ankle over the curve of his calf. 

“You know,” he says absently, “Sometimes you’re so beautiful that I don’t feel sure you’re human. At all.” 

He doesn’t bother to feign surprise when Hashirama closes the distance between their mouths. It’s hardly unexpected, and he’s so  _ tired _ . He goes easily, reaching up quickly to touch his jaw, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth with his thumb. He feels the roots of the camphor give way behind his back, and Hashirama seizes his shoulders, almost like he’s worried the earth might swallow them up if he doesn’t.

“Well,” Hashirama says sheepishly, “You- You know.” 

Madara huffs out a little laugh. In the distance, he can feel Izuna’s chakra signature, opal-white and hot with worry, simmering in the quiet evening air. He frowns.

“Hashirama-”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says gently, replacing his basket on his forearm, “Though I wish I could stay.” 

“Yeah,” Madara says, a little sad, “I do too.” 

It’s dark now- Madara wonders if the sun has always set so quickly, or if the world is just shifting to accommodate Hashirama’s presence at his side. He’s still glowing, faintly, humming softly and touching Madara’s shin. 

“I’ll try and come to the river again soon,” Hashirama promises, “For you. So I can see you. You know what I mean.” 

“I do,” Madara murmurs. He touches Hashirama’s cheek again, catching a short length of his hair between his fingers. A fern unfolds at his hip, and he smiles.

“I need you to remind you to show you this piece of sunstone that I found at a trading post.”

“Okay,” Madara says honestly, “I will, Hashirama, I promise.” 

Hashirama smiles and kisses him again, quickly this time, tracing an invisible curve from his mouth up over the apple of his cheek. He presses the tip of his nose against Madara’s temple. 

“I always forget how kind you are,” Hashirama says quietly, “When you’re gone. You always amaze me when I see you again.” 

Madara feels Izuna’s chakra somewhere behind his left shoulder. He flinches. 

“Hashirama-”

There’s a tiny tangle of bamboo in winding coils where Hashirama had been, glowing dimly gold and green around the broad leaves of the ferns and lillies he’d left behind. Madara rolls his ankle experimentally. Sometimes, he isn’t too sure that Hashirama is human at all. 


End file.
